


Through Funky Glasses

by Omnicat



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Clothing, Crack, Gen, Psychotropic Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 21:32:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6256663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnicat/pseuds/Omnicat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once the entire business with the Tallgeese is resolved, Zechs and Howard turn to another important topic: what Zechs is going to wear now that OZ has thrown him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Funky Glasses

Behind every great man with somewhat bad taste in clothing, is a crazy man with absolutely horrible taste in clothing and the misguided sense that he’s good at giving fashion advice.

Or at least, this was the case for Milliardo Peacecraft when he rose from the ashes in an ancient suit that made him look like he’d stepped right out of a pre-colony western movie. (The lack of matching hat and moustache only made it _worse_.) It went something like this...

(Not the emphasis on ‘something’. Howard always gets a little incoherent when the subject of clothing comes up, and Zechs reports to have been laying the precedent for a drinking habit that would last the entirety of what was left of the war, at the time.)

Zechs had woken up on Howard’s Sweeper ship with the initial thought that if his OZ uniform jacket had made it with him into the afterlife, he must have surely ended up in Hell. Meeting Howard seemed to confirm this, until he realised that almost every religion currently in practice agreed that MS had no soul (except for the Invisible Pink Unicorn crowd, but they had always been a taciturn bunch anyway), so Tallgeese couldn’t have followed Zechs to Hell nor Heaven. Not even purgatory, most likely.

His place in the land of the living secured, Zechs and Howard got talking, and when they ran out of plot relevant things to say, they switched to more normal conversation. You know, the type _Gundam Wing_ is so good at cutting out?

"You hungry?"

"Like the horse of Troy."

"Ain’t you lucky. Now that Duo’s started hiding out in those fancy oases, we have chow to spare."

And, once the food was there and being gobbled up by Zechs, who hadn’t eaten in three days, like he hadn’t eaten in three weeks: "You wouldn’t have anything for me to wear, would you? If I have to wear that coat one more time I think I’ll do something crazy. Crazy to _my_ standards, even."

Howard’s eyes seemed to start glowing like light bulbs behind his sunglasses. Zechs would wish he had never asked for a long time to come. Though not until afterward. Currently he was getting high.

"Actually, I do believe I do. Funny that you should ask, I’m a collector of clothing of unusual cut. How’s the kebab, by the way?"

"It’s fine. Has an usual bouquet. Very pleasant on the tonsils."

"Ah, good, good. That’s some kind of ‘special’ desert sauce Duo sent us. I thought I’d better test it before I let the whole crew at it. Tell me if you should get the runs, okay?"

Zechs did not get the runs, but by the time Howard showed him the first outfit in his collection, the hallucogenic components of the Maganac sauce had gone from head to toe and all the way in between, chasing away every last shred of his common sense with their bright colours and odd swirling flashes. Not that there had been much left: after accomplishing his life goal of avenging and rebuilding his home country, much of his more useful mental faculties, which had until then been devoted entirely to aforementioned life goal, had taken a sabbatical. Or quit outright and found a less abusive owner.

But back to Howard and _his_ personalized method of madness: the suit he offered Zechs consisted of a large black cloak with red clouds on it, toe-less shoes, and several pieces of fishnet and bandages. And it came with grease-paint.

"Black is not my colour." Zechs said, after several minutes of squinting to make sure what colour was actually in front of him.

"Hm... how about army green?"

"Why do you think I wear a customized _red_ uniform?"

"Eh, gotta love a tough customer like you. Okay, let’s see, let’s see... I also have something in blue? It’s a military uniform of sorts, but I guarantee none of the pros will recognize it, and it should be exactly your size."

"... No thank you." Blue was Treize’s colour. He’d rather not be reminded of that while he was so blissfully dopey. "Do you have something with a mask?"

"Several! A couple of variations of silver on red, but they’d probably remind too much of your old one. The other is black and has a cape. And it makes you look poofy. Like a poofy demon."

"Oh."

"But not to worry, I’m sure we’ll find something that fits both your size and your style. Your size is surprisingly common."

They went through another dozen or so costumes, from a patched up red robe belonging to - not with, _to_ \- a hat with misspelled captions, to no less than five kinds of Medieval European-looking dress, three of which were or included pieces of armour (not necessarily functional, or even in the right places), to a business suit that was simply too plain to drag Zechs’s attention away from the light show on the ceiling.

Zechs didn’t really have to try any of it on; Howard was content to keeping it against his chest or back and making him stand in odd poses. Until he pulled out something made entirely of black leather from the far corner of his storage closet, got excited enough to make his old bones and creaking joints bounce, and all but stuffed Zechs (who was seeing flaming apples and flying porcupines by that time), into it, generously abusing his sudden spat of unnatural energy. He was very adamant about this outfit, going as far as taking a whole battery of pictures of Zechs in it (only one of which he used to bribe him with, strangely), but the carefully styled hair he insisted was an absolute must did not sit too well with the drugs in Zechs’s system.

It became clear to Howard, too, after much faux arm wrestling and finger painting, that what he asked was simply physically impossible. But _then_ he did have Zechs out of the suit and the suit back into the closet in record time.

"Well, Mister Billion and Six, I must admit. I’m always in for a challenge, but you’re making it rather hard on an old man. I only have two more pieces for you to try that are meant to be worn by _men_."

He held up two costumes that could not have been more different. One was dark red, big, robe-like and looked very sharp. Sharp enough to puncture the hull of an Empire class Fire Nation battle ship, leaving thousands to drown at sea. Because, it was so sharp. Haha. Ahem.

The other was a white three-piece suit with just enough silly details to stand out from all the millions of other three-piece suits worn across the globe and colonies day in day out, but modest enough to not give the wearer away as a total lunatic straight away.

The latter... _called_ to him. It resonated with something inside his very soul.

Zechs pointed at a point three feet away from the hand in which Howard held the white suit. "Why didn’t you show me that one sooner?"

Howard’s nose wrinkled in distaste. "Eh, long story. Don’t tell me you want it?"

"But I do." Zechs said, crestfallen.

"I still have some dresses that might fit you? I could even rework some things if -"

"But I want _that_ one." Zechs said with all the whininess of the seven-year-old he had been reduced to by the combined forces of plot and pot.

Howard could only sigh. He’d helped create this monster himself. There was no choice but to feed it. "Alright, alright. You can have it. But don’t blame me if random people turn around to glare at you in the streets."

And that’s how it happened. Or something like it, at least.

The only thing Zechs could remember with much clarity later on, was leaving. He was already wearing the suit, and years of concealing his features had habituated against frivolous physical self-scrutiny, so there was nothing to be done about _that_ anymore. But one thing kept nagging at him even through his ill-thought out plans for the future and the massive hangover.

"How in the world did you get all those weird clothes?"

Howard’s answer came with a grin and a merry twinkle in his sunglasses. "I’m a salvager, kiddo. I salvage things, collect parts, and place them together in ways they weren’t originally meant to fit. But once I’m through with them, they do. Oh, you bet they do. And whoever said it could only be machines?"

**Author's Note:**

> Comments on older fics will ALWAYS remain welcome.


End file.
